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HORIZONS 


J-NRLF 


ROBERT  ALDEN  SANBORN 


Horizons 


BY 
ROBERT  ALDEN  SANBORN 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


THE    FOUR    SEAS    PRESS 
BOSTON   AND   NORWOOD 


P55f37 


CONTENTS 

Page 

THE  DESERTED  BALLROOM  7 

IN  A  CHILD-GARDEN  n 

THE  SUFFRAGETTE  16 

THE  NUPTIALS  OF  LEO  FRANK  19 

SOUL  OF  THE  LOTUS  21 

DEMOCAUST  23 

MEMORIAL  DAY  IN  THE  DESERT  25 

THE  WIND  27 

To  A  CHILD  FALLING  ASLEEP  28 

THE  CROWD  31 

THE  LAUGHTER  OF  THE  WORLD  33 

THE  PINE-TREE  34 

SIN  35 

WAR  37 

A  MEMORY  39 

WHEN  WE  WERE  CHILDREN  TOGETHER  40 

To  BETTY  IN  A  BLUE  FROCK  41 

LENTO  42 

THE  CHILD  SEEN  FROM  A  WINDOW  43 

A  WINTER-WALK  WITH  BARBY  44 

To  BOBBY,  BEING  SEVEN  46 

THE  WATER-FRONT  47 

A  CHRISTMAS  TOAST  48 

To  ONE  IN  DEATH  50 

THE  SNAKE  PASSES  51 

MOON'S  SONG  52 

MY  SELF  53 

DUST  TO  DUST  55 

To  A  MASTER  MARINER  56 

A  WARNING  FROM  THE  HEART  57 

THE  VISION  OF  ONE  WHO  DOUBTED  58 

MAUVE  63 


346162 


THE  COVER  DRAWING  IS  BY  ELIHU  VEDDER 


TO  MY  MOTHER 
CRITIC-EXTRAORDINARY   AND  FRIEND-SUPREME 


THE  DESERTED  BALLROOM 

I. 

The  dancers  all  have  gone, 
Leaving  their  souls  behind  them ; 
Pallid  and  frail  their  souls, 
With  not  a  fleeting  foot  to  mind  them ; 
Their  souls  are  not  their  own. 

Wearing  their  fleshly  wraps, 

They  have  returned  to  the  prose 

Of  the  sandy  shore, 

Robed  in  the  rags  of  dancers  long  before. 

And  still, 

But  never  still, 

The  lyric  water  of  the  ballroom  floor 

Laps  the  firm  prose  of  the  sand, 

And  ever  laps. 

The  sea  is  still  ; 

Only  the  rhythm  of  the  waltz, 

Sprinkled  in  waves  upon  the  starlit  space, 

Lingers  like  dropped  petals  of  the  dancers'  grace. 

The  sea  is  mirror  of  the  will 

To  paint  the  laugh  of  pleasure 

Forever  on  the  face. 


II. 

My  breath  faints  upon  my  lips. 

For  forth  from  the  untenanted  night 

One  cometh  wandering  in  a  dream, 

Holding  aloft  a  taper  whose  wan  flame  skips 

On  the  faded  rhythm  of  the  ballroom  floor; 

Some  sated  dancer  in  a  plight 

Of  loss,  spreading  a  ghostly  gleam. 

There  is  no  tide  of  music,  is  it  to  dance  once  more 

She  brings  her  light  ? 

The  sea,  how  still. 

The  moon,  how  very  pale. 

Is  it  without  avail 

Her  beams  drip  from  the  eaten  candle,  spill 

Gouts  of  warm  gold  upon  the  sable  floor? 

Who  passed  in  sobbing  haste  from  prose  of  sand 
To  descend  upon  the  sea  that  echoes  with  the  dance  f 

A  splash  of  welcome  in  the  glance 
Of  feeble  rays  descending; 
And  a  clasp  of  mortal  hand 
With  spirit,  in  a  hope  unending. 

The  waxen  moon  confers  a  lure  that  glozes 

The  prose  of  sandy  shore,  and  closes 

The  reaching  gap  from  satiate  dancer  to  his  soul. 

She  comes  with  pity  of  forbidden  light 

In  which  to  find  again  his  loosened  aureole. 

[S] 


III. 

There  is  a  lustral  peace  abiding 
In  the  moon  upon  the  sea ; 
There  is  no  lost  soul  hiding 
In  hope  bereft  of  Thee, 
O  august  Beauty! 

Dropped  cadences  on  the  water  mutter, 

And  hush  like  fragrances  in  a  deserted  hall 

Where  the  last  dancer  closed  the  door. 

No  more  tonight  does  the  candle  gutter, 

And  stain  the  ballroom  floor. 

In  the  blue  moon's  sleep  forgotten  souls  are  gathered 

to  the  shore, 

Its  prose  melted  in  the  rhythmic  fall 
Of  crescending  light. 
Ended  in  dream  the  wasted  dancer's  plight. 

And  yet  I  hesitate  to  sleep ; 

For  does  not  the  revealing  Goddess  keep 

The  sanctity  of  pleasure, 

And  Artemis  in  her  might 

Bestow  the  boon  of  Beauty  on  our  fevered  measure? 

In  the  blinding  nakedness  of  silence, 

Over  Poseidon's  floor, 

On  this  sea  of  failed  emotion, 

Is  there  not  more 

The  freed  spirit  of  the  dance 

When  spent  is  the  last  forlorn  devotion? 

[9] 


Grey  prose  of  sand  and  shore 

Is  to  blue  magic  dedicated  ; 

And  when,  the  fever  of  the  quest  abated, 

The  body  shakes  its  tattered  clothes 

Upon  the  floor, 

Do  we  not  pass  from  beauty  simulated 

To  the  one  Beauty  that  is  more  ? 


1 10] 


IN  A  CHILD-GARDEN 

I. 

They  are  happy  there, 

The  Children  I  love, 

For  there  they  are  raised  above 

The  sedulous  air 

Of  home,  and  two — too  many — parents. 

For  parents  are  a  fussy  folk ; 

It  is  either  a  cloak 

Too  much  or  not  enough ; 

And  their  ways  are  rough, 

Chafed  by  crossing  edges, — 

The  will  to  be  too  kind, 

The  will  to  keep  their  pledges 

To  a  Lord  they  do  not  understand. 

But  here  He  who  loved  Children  rules. 

They  call  such  places  "schools", 

(And  fish  who  swim  together). 

They  might  as  well  call  weather 

The  ten  commandments, 

And  make  a  moral  code  of  prankish  elements, 

As  call  this  place  a  "school". 

They  might  as  aptly  wield  a  ferule 

Over  a  swarm  of  quivering  flowers, 

Trembling  not  with  fear  of  Spartan  hours, 

But  with  laughter  and  with  love,  scattered  by  the 

showers. 

If  this  place  is  a  "school", 
Then  everyone's  a  fool 


Who  goes  to  any  other. 

There  is  a  mother, 

But  no  father, — 

A  woman  who  is  not  a  mother, 

Since  a  father  is  not  indispensable 

To  Motherhood. 

And  the  Children  all  are  hers,  her  brood. 

She  is  responsible 

But  to  the  love  of  Him  who  best  loved  Childhood. 

II. 

I  had  come  from  very  far. 

Was  it  one  life, 

Was  it  many  I  had  dipped  in, 

Flagging  on  my  pinions  ? 

I  do  not  know  how  many  lives  there  are 

Between  the  strife  of  my  outsetting, 

From  primordial  forgetting 

To  these  nursery  dominions, 

Where  the  gilt  of  many  a  star 

Glints  among  the  happy  toys 

Tumbled  by  the  girls  and  boys. 

I  only  know  at  last  I  reached  a  house, 

Plain  outside  where  the  plumed  trees  waited ; 

That  a  soul-tall  woman,  gaited 

More  like  bird  whose  wings  were  clipped 

Than  one  who  never  had  the  wings  to  rouse, 

Opened  wide  a  door  through  which  I  stepped ; 

That  we  endlessly  conversed,  mated 

All  our  many  lives  together 

[12] 


In  transfusing  understanding, 

That  as  she  rose  I  felt  each  feather 

Of  the  wings  I  little  used, 

Pricked  with  mutinous  demanding 

That  the  time  to  soar  was  near ; 

Then  through  parted  doors  I  saw  them, 

Four, — three  boys,  and  then,  a  girl. 

What  I  saw  was  four  small  Children 
On  the  shore  of  many  worlds  ; 
What  I  could  not  see  was  more 
Than  I'd  ever  seen  before, 
World  on  world,  a  terraced  hill 
Of  castled  worlds, 
Piled  with  pearly  roof  and  turret, 
Capping  one  another  like  a  clownish  hatter's  head, 
Wearing  all  his  stock. 

And  underneath  this  towering  crest  of  profuse  crea 
tion, 

The  rhythmic  breathing  of  their  talk, 
Ebbing,  falling  on  the  shore . . . 

Three  boys,  and  then — 

A  girl, 

Floating  in  the  play's  still  lake, 

Playing  with  the  Pearl  of  fun, 

Playing  in  the  valley, 

In  whose  downy  lap  would  break, 

Fall  with  clattering  confusion, 

All  the  bubbled  worlds'  profusion, 


Harmlessly  upon  their  heads 
Would  break  and  break  and  break. 

III. 

I  am  what  their  love  conjures  forth, 

I  am  not  loath 

To  be  anyone  their  tendrils  seek  to  climb  on. 

If  it  is  a  father-post,  that  I  will  be; 

A  brother,  or  shy  lover,  I  am  he ; 

And  if  a  piper  pied  they  see, 

Or  a  grave  angel  draped  in  blue, 

I'm  sure  if  I  gazed  in  a  glass  I'd  see  him  too. 

For  their  eyes  are  magic  pools  wherein  a  star 

Sits  on  the  brow  of  everyone  who  looks  within; 

And  on  the  brink 

One  does  not  choose  to  think 

But  just  to  feel  their  breath  and  be 

Born  their  fancies'  avatar. 

IV. 

And  when  I  go  to  them, 

They  flock  to  me  and  cling 

Like  anemones,  bursting 

Out  of  secret  shadows  of  the  earth, 

To  the  wonderment  of  the  stiff  tall  tree 

Whose  roots  feel  the  tickling 

Of  their  sudden  mirth ; 

Whose  leaves  giggle  with  glee 

As  do  the  lips  and  eyes  of  me 

[14] 


When  the  tinted  faces  of  these  Child-blossoms, 
Out  of  my  common-places, 
Break  in  breath-arresting  birth. 

V. 

Through  the  netted  roses 
Fat-cheeked  peonies 
Wakeful  in  their  bed, 
Talk  in  scented  whisper, 
Scented  like  the  roses ; 
While  overhead 

1  he  sleeping  breath  of  Children 
Scents  an  inner  garden, 
Sweeter  than  the  near  one 
Where  the  flowers  are. 

On  the  black  pinnacle 

Of  the  cedar-tree 

Hangs  a  golden  honey-bee 

Heavy  with  sweet  light ; 

Heavy  with  the  plunder  of  a  full-blown  sun 

Closed  in  the  garden  of  the  night. 

Only  for  a  moment  clings  the  robber-bee  moon 

To  the  peak  of  the  tree, 

Then  toils  on  lazy  wings 

Through  star- tangles  up  the  sky, 

And  murmurously  sings 

Upon  its  sagging  flight. 

There  is  so  much  to  be  said 

When  the  Children  are  in  bed ; 

So  much  to  be  idly  said  in  the  drowsy  moony  night. 

[15] 


THE  SUFFRAGETTE 

She  never  married : 

She  was  importunate 

To  pluck  the  thorn  of  lightning  out  of  sex, 

And  so  she  tarried, 

And  would  not  let  perplex 

EOer  view  of  fate 

The  small  weak  piping  call  of  mate  to  mate. 

Her  eyes  she  fashioned 

Into  an  open  stare 

Like  to  a  Grecian  marble ; 

She  looked  the  Cyprian  who  passioned  them 

To  wobble 

From  the  bee-straight  line  of  duty, 

And  peer  wistfully  at  others'  happiness, 

Square  in  the  face. 

Her  heart  was  there  with  beauty 

Of  the  common  race, 

And  there  she  left  it. 

Yet  heartless  she  was  not, 

Except      toward     foolish      private      games      ar 

semblances ; 
She  loved  the  dances, 
But  for  the  dancers  scorn  in  her  was  hot ; 
She  loved  them,  too,  but  thought 
The  weave  of  their  light  passions  and  frail  trances 
At  too  great  cost  of  blindness  to  the  dealer's  tricks 
Was  bought. 

[16] 


So  much  of  her, 

Her  oceanic  force, 

Went  to  denying 

Her  own  heart's  teasing,  crying, 

And  to  divorce 

The  waste  insatiate  flames  of  self 

From  mortal  habits, 

Saving,  diverting  them  as  rabbits 

From  the  traps, 

I  wondered  she  could  stand  the  stinging  raps 

Of  pattering  indifference, 

Until  I  saw 

Her  virtue  was  compounded  all  of  lean  endurance. 

I  heard  her  say, 

At  bay : 

Man  is  a  colossus,  striding, 

With  one  foot  mired  deep  in  pleasure, 

The  other  stamping  his  outrageous  yoke 

Upon  our  love,  our  treasure. 

And  this  he  calls  his  "joke" ; 

Expecting  us  to  laugh  with  him  in  his  deriding 

The  rights  (ha !  ha)  of  woman. 

And  there  he  sticks,  the  oaf, 

Refusing  to  retreat  or  go  on ; 

Braying :    Better  half  a  loaf 

With  me 

Than  none.  But  shall  we,  fellow-women,  not  agree 

Better  an  independent  death 

By  wan  starvation, 

[17] 


Than  by  asphyxiation 

In  our  own  thwarted  breath  ? 

She  never  married, 

And  for  her  stark  atonement,  Life 

Drove  through  her  palms  and  side  the  lightning 

thorns, 
Because  she  tarried. 


[18] 


THE  NUPTIALS  OF  LEO  FRANK 

He  could  not  hide,  for  they  had  kept  him 
Where  they  could  find  him. 

He  had  no  follower  who  would  deny  he  knew  him, 
But  every  man  a  Judas  kiss  had  for  him. 

How  different  with  them ; 

Who  went  at  night,  with  even  night  shut  from  them 

By  goggled  trappings  that  pent  up  their  vileness  in 

them. 
The  cock  might  crow  till  Justice  died  but  no  one  knew 

them. 

He,  the  uplifted  bridegroom,  (Justice  loved  him) 

To  that  ghastly  dance  of  Hymen  they  led  him. 

They  could  not  see,  for  goggled  eyes,  his  Goddess  wed 

him; 
The  light  they  hid  from  was  alone  for  him. 

They  had  their  way,  that  much  was  vouchsafed  them ; 
The  poor  sick  body  danced  a  step  or  two  to  glut  them ; 
A  drift  of  dust  shaken  off  his  soul  fell  on  them; 
They  were  alone,  fearing  the  kindly  light  that  could  not 
find  them. 

He  was  no  Ulysses,  his  rival  suitors  were  too  much  for 

him; 
The  twenty-five  pure  lovers  of  grave  Justice  tricked 

him. 


But  when  they  had  (they  thought)  disposed  of  him, 
Justice    refused   their   stifling    secrecy   and    ran    on 
streams  of  light  to  him. 

Happy  with  his  immortal  bride  he  bends  to  them, 
Pitying,  knowing  that  the  break  of  dawn  to  them 
Must  be  a  cruel  torture  to  the  eyes  of  them, — 
They  who  deny  the  light  and  wrap  their  night  about 
them. 


l20j 


SOUL  OF  THE  LOTUS 
[To  Has  eg  aw  a] 

I 
A  white  lamp, 

hanging — 
In  its  mouth  a  pink  pearl 

of  flame — 
Swinging 

by  three  strands  of  light. . . 
A  pool        beneath, 
Quaint  and  secret  as  mud. 

II 

Animate, 

Winged  for  escape 

To  the  cupped  hand  of  night 

Scooping  pink  and  green  stars 

Out  of  unknown  abysses, 

The  lotus — 

i 

But  there's  the  stem  hinting, 
Tale-telling  of  some  old  connection, 
Some  scandal  forgotten 
In  the  past  of  the  taciturn  mud; 
Over  whose  face 

Or  is  it  a  face 

Under  the  mask  of  cool  water ? 

[21] 


The  lotus 

looks  and  fades  upward, 
Tirelessly  murmuring, 
Politely  concealing  impatience, 
Like  a  lady  reminding  a  dolt : 
"Please,  you  have  caught  in  the  door 
A  slip  of  my  skirt ; 
Let  me  loose, 
I  must  go." 


[22 


DEMOCAUST 

Whose  are  the  hands  that  are  warmed 
At  the  red  hearth  of  war? 
And  who  sit  crouched  in  the  smoke 
Of  the  earth  where  youth  is  ablaze? 

There's  a  crackle,  a  snapping, 

In  the  little  green  valley, 

On  the  lip  of  the  river, 

From  the  green-shuttered  belfry; 

And  amongst  the  purple  sweet  clusters 

Hid  in  the  leaves  of  the  vineyard, 

Jagged  fangs  are  spurting 

And  maiming  the  air. 

The  warm  fumes  of  blood 

Exhale  from  the  meadow, 

The  sleek  grasses  are  red  as  the  embers, 

And  hot  are  the  flowers  with  the  splashed  life  of  men. 

There's  a  hiss  of  escaping  breath 

From  the  brands  on  the  hearth  that  are  dying ; 

Earth  steams  with  war  fire, 

And  whose  hands  are  warmed? 

Our  fingers  are  chill 

With  the  numbness  of  death; 

And  the  coals  that  would  warm  them 

Have  yielded  their  flame — 

Our  lads  lying  wan  on  the  meadow. 

(23] 


Whose  hands  are  outspread 

To  the  burning  of  hearts 

On  the  stones  of  the  earth, 

Where  the  star  of  the  young  of  a  people 

Has  burst  into  wrath ; 

And  the  cinders  are  smothering 

The  mouths  of  the  roses, 

And  the  white-breathing  lilies ; 

And  choked  is  the  peace  of  the  brook 

With  grey  corpses ; 

And  the  soul  of  the  star  of  the  young, 

The  light  of  its  shining, 

Shimmers  hot  on  the  wheat — 

For  a  breath — 

Then  is  gone,  and  the  ripe  grasses  shiver 

With  the  dew  of  the  nightfall  of  death? 

Youth's  green  limbs  are  ashes, 

Their  quick  sap  is  spent. 

By  whose  hands  was  this  kindled  ? 

Whose  blood  does  it  warm  ? 

Our  hearthstones  are  cold. 

We  have  fed  our  young  blood 

To  the  red  fires  of  war, 

And  the  ashes  fall  dead — 

Our  lads  that  lie  white  on  the  meadow. 


[24] 


MEMORIAL  DAY  IN  THE  DESERT 

I  have  done  a  good  deed  today, 

I  have  made  the  flag  happy, 

Our  flag,  the  flowing  waves  of  red  and  white, 

With  the  patch  of  starry  heaven  in  the  corner  above. 

For  I  remembered  that  this  was  our  soldiers'  day, 

Ours,  who  went  before  us, 

And   plunged   unafraid    into    the    flame-riven   battle 

gloom. 

And  I,  remembering  that  this  day  was  theirs, 
Unfolded  the  precious  bunting,  lovingly  wound  about 

the  rafter, 

And  I  hoisted  a  pole  above  my  roof -tree, 
And  I  swung  the  beloved  flag  to  the  peak. 
Dancing  in  her  gladness,  in  the  exultation  of  freedom, 
She  soared  like  a  mating  swallow  up  to  her  lover,  the 

wind, 

Who  seized  her  in  mad  abandon, 
And  off  they  went  together  in  fluent  ripples, 
In  undulations  of  sweetest  motion. 

Yes,  the  sleeping  flag  awoke  and  lived, 
Feeling  the  kisses  of  her  far-flying  lover, 
Who  came  from  beyond  the  ends  of  earth ; 
Who  had  borne  his  sweetheart  drooping  with  the  ter 
rors  of  love, 

Over  bleeding  regiments  of  men ; 
And  had  held  her  stark  in  maddening  embraces 
High  above  the  smoking  ramparts, 

[25] 


And  the  iron  tubes  of  War's  red  thunderbolts 
That  lay  menacing  beneath. 

All  that  the  flag  had  lived  before 

It  has  lived  through  this  day ; 

Here  on  the  blank  sun-smitten  slope, 

Far  from  the  haunted  battle-fields. 

For  filled  with  the  immemorial  love  of  the  wind  spirit, 

It  lives  for  all  time  and  beyond  all  time, 

Before  the  world,  and  after. 


THE  WIND 

He  is  the  shepherd  of  the  snow, 

Whipping  his  flock  from  stellar  spaces 

In  wild  tumultuous  races 

To  pastured  rest  upon  the  earth  below. 

From  the  rose-flushed  West  he  comes ; 

And,  heavy  as  a  bee,  with  kisses 

From  the  honeyed  mouth 

Of  the  slumbering  South, 

He  lazies  over  tides  and  spills  them  to  the  fishes  ; 

Or,  sounding  glacial  drums, 

Ice-metalled  like  a  Goth  he  marches  forth 

From  Hyperborean  mountains  on  the  frontiers  of  the 

North; 

And  he  is  Neptune's  priest 
Who  swings  the  surging  chorus  of  the  sea 
To  where  the  earth  on  bended  knee 
Bows  to  the  dawn-doors  of  the  templed  East. 
From  all  the  quarters  four 
That  verge  upon  the  suppliant  earth, 
His  cleansing  currents  pour, 
Charged  with  a  gusty  mirth. 
Cloud-petals  swirl  and  maze  the  stars, 
Sea-horses  fling  themselves  upon  the  shore 
And  all  their  foamy  life  in  broken  bubbles  yield, 
When  he  is  loosed,  and  perturbates  and  mars 
The  chambers  of  the  sky,  and  up  the  forest  floor 
Blows  blossoms  ravished  from  the  flowering  field. 

[27] 


TO  A  CHILD  FALLING  ASLEEP 

Over  the  dim  edge  of  sleep  I  lean, 

And  in  her  eyes'  illimitable  grey  distances 

Look  down  into  the  shadow-tinted  space — 

The  cloudy  air  of  sleep — 

To  see  the  rose-lit  petal  of  a  Child's  fair  soul 

Seek  dreamily  the  farther  gloom, 

Where  waking  eyes  may  follow  her  no  more. 

One  more  last  time  her  lids  are  lifted, 

And  in  her  look  I  read  a  wistful  fare-thee-well ; 

Her  spirit  waves  a  twinkling  white  hand, 

Her  bark  is  out  upon  the  sea  of  dream — 

The  calm,  grey  sea,  full  and  immoveably  established, 

That  drinks  the  river  of  my  love,  without  o'erflowing, 

Nor  ever  gives  my  image  back  to  me. 

When  o'er  the  sun-swept  land 

Murmuring  twilight  spread  her  dusky  tent, 

A  Stranger  passed  before  our  friendly  sun, — 

Between  the  dark  and  dawn — 

A  Stranger  whom  we  love  but  never  see. 

And  as  she  came  and  cast  her  blue  benignant  shadow 

over  all, 

She  set  a  silver  trumpet  to  her  lips, 
And  blew  a  note  that  thrilled  in  Children's  hearts ; 
Because  in  little  hearts  the  echo- fairies  love  to  play 
Roaming  the  scented  meadows  there, 

[28] 


Where   Love   has   been   and   sown   the   amaranthine 

flowers, 
Out  of  whose  pristine  cups  are  born  the  singing  stars. 

And  as  the  first  free  rainbow  bubble  fled, 

Launched  by  the  Stranger  with  the  silver  pipe 

Upon  the  listening  air, 

As  first  the  hollow  note 

Kissed  the  sweet  lips  and  died  of  too  great  happiness, 

The  little  Child  unfurled  her  sails. 

I  stood  there  on  the  very  verge  of  sleep, 

And  called  to  her, 

And  Love's  own  self  had  deigned  to  dwell  within  my 

heart, 

(Because  I  kept  it  always  fit  for  Childish  guests) 
And  would  have  given  welcome  had  she  stayed. 
But  then  I  saw  the  eyelids  close, 
And  knew  that  Azrael  who  watched  her  soul's  white 

way, 

Had  shut  the  gates  lest  I  should  see 
More  than  my  life  could  bear. 

Yet  I  had  seen  her  go, 

And  sight  no  more  could  hold  of  Beauty's  wine. 

I  had  seen  the  fair  face  flush, 

As  the  soft  curtains  of  the  tinted  west 

Are  drawn  before  the  temple  of  the  night, 

When  the  day-worn  sun  has  passed  within ; 

Had  seen  the  little  body,  whitely  gowned, 

[29] 


Folded  within  its  nest ; 

Had  caught  the  last  light  kiss 

Before  the  lips  lay  still ; 

And  I  had  looked  into  the  cool  grey  deep, 

Where  Sleep  received  the  rose-leaf  soul  of  her, 

And  bore  it  out  upon  her  gentle  waters. 

Into  the  night  I  passed, 

Where  on  the  mellow  bosom  of  the  west, 

Floated  the  flame-lit  shell  of  Hesperus ; 

And  as  I  stayed  with  hallowed  breath, 

The  soul  of  fire  fell  over  the  rim  of  night. 

And  then  I  knew  the  soul  of  her  I  loved 

Had  heard  the  last  clear  call, 

The  low  Elysian  chant  of  Hesperus, 

And  loving  me  had  borne  the  love  I  gave, 

Out  and  beyond  and  over  all  the  ends  of  earth, 

And  where  the  altar  flame  of  Venus*  burned, 

Had  laid  the  gift  and  breathed  her  Childhood's  prayer. 


[30] 


THE  CROWD 

I  moved  amongst  a  concourse  crushing, 

And  everywhere  I  looked  faces  pressed  upon  me ; 

Their  eyes  did  not  look  at  me, 

They  were  staring  to  see  what  I  myself  was  seeing. 

They  did  not  see  me,  they  moved  upon  and  over  me ; 

And  I  was  afraid. 

Many  feet  were  upon  me  and  the  eyes  were  not  seeing 

me; 

The  feet  did  not  feel  me. 
And  I  sank  beneath  the  flood, 
Bodies  flowed  over  me ; 
And  I  sank  yet  deeper,  and  sinking,  I  died. 

I  died  into  passion, 

Into  sea  beneath  sea  of  stagnant  passion — 

Passion  of  possession,  passion  of  envy,  passion  of  lust, 

Passion  of  power,  passion  of  sensing, 

Passion  of  the  crowd  seeing  nothing  ; 

And  this  was  Hell. 

Then  there  was  peace, 

And  I  walked  alone  in  a  little  park ; 

And  beyond  on  the  paling  primrose  of  the  west 

A  cool  star  clung, 

One  drop  of  golden  rain  upon  the  window  glass  of 

night. 

And  as  I  moved,  I  saw,  like  a  spider  crawling, 
A  tree  of  many  boughs  tangle  the  star  and  let  it  free. 

[31] 


And  I  thought : 

Humanity  is  a  starry  tear  to  Heaven  falling, 

And  like  that  star, 

It  seems  a  moving  net  of  passions  tangle  it, 

But  only  seems. 


[32] 


THE  LAUGHTER  OF  THE  WORLD 

My  eyes  saw  not  the  ground, 

The  grey  silence  of  thought  immured  me , 

I  went  on,  yet  dwelt  I  in  abiding ; 

When  up  from  the  neutral  earth  beneath  my  feet 

There  gleamed  the  lowly  smiling  of  a  flower. 

Loud  within  the  cloister  of  my  mind, 

So  vastly  arched  and  so  austerely  silent, 

A  great  mirth  echoed. 

I  shook  with  dread; 

I  turned  and  sought  within  my  templed  mind, 

I  measured  all  its  dim  profundities, 

I  scanned  its  firmamental  heights, 

But  found  no  one. 

Nor  did  the  laughter  trespass  on  my  peace  again, 

Till  I  came  forth  from  out  my  temple. 

Then  I  was  bewildered, 

And  questioned  with  dazed  eyes  the  world  about  me, 

And  saw  on  every  side 

The  shafts  of  humor  couched  against  me. 

I  saw  the  sun,  blazing  with  mirth,  in  Heaven  throned ; 

I  saw  the  trees  humorously  a-quiver, 

And  the  hills  smiling  broadly, 

And  the  lowly  flower  pealing  like  a  Child. 

All  were  laughing  at  me — 

At  me,  the  thinker — 

And  their  laughter  was  One. 


[33] 


THE    PINE-TREE 

When  the  sky  is  grey  and  the  body  of  light  is  veiled, 
And  the  luminous  shadow  of  Death  spreads  silvery 

cool  over  the  earth, 
And  hushed  footfalls  of  rest  are  fleet  in  the  garment 

of  rain, 
The  priestly  spirit  of  the  pine  fares  forth  from  the 

secret  portals. 

Almost  I  see  him,  but  tremble  even  lest  I  should, 
For  then  would  the  savor  of  life  depart, 
And  the  earth  of  my  vision  be  smitten  with  the  doom 

of  the  frozen  moon, 

Did  immortal  sight  once  shatter  the  blindness  of  mor 
tality. 
But  when  the  blue  day  of  resurrection  is  drawn  over 

the  mystery, 
Then  the  templed  green  porches  of  the  pine-tree  are 

shut, 

And  the  secret  doors  are  hidden; 
The  message  of  the  starry  needles  has  folded  wings, 
And  the  rubric  of  the  crooked  branches  is  a  dead 

language. 

Still  have  I  glimpsed  and  know  that  near  he  passed  me, 
For  did  not  the  green  window  open  a  little  way, 
And  a  herald  whisper  through  the  grey  veil  of  sileiice 

as  it  brushed  me ; 

And  the  fronded  islands  of  the  pine-tree  quiver 
As  a  mirage  on  the  bosom  of  shadowy  waters? 
Having  seen,  I  am  blind. 

[34] 


SIN 

The  eastern  casements  of  my  mind  I  pushed  aside ; 

(Sin  walketh  up  and  down  in  the  world) 
Come  in,  thou  goodly  Sun !    I  gaily  cried. 

(Sin  goeth  to  and  fro) 


The  sun  flung  out  a  bar  of  gold  transparent 
(Sin  walketh  up  and  down  in  the  world) 

That  was  a  phantom  form  of  virgin  ore. 
(Sin  goeth  to  and  fro) 


But  tangled  in  its  misty  folds  there  lay 

(Sin  walketh  up  and  down  in  the  world) 

An  object  black  and  noisome  as  decay. 
(Sin  goeth  to  and  fro) 


I  dashed  in  fury  at  the  evil  thought, 

(Sin  walketh  up  and  down  in  the  world) 

And  puffed  and  clutched  the  air  in  vain  pursuit. 
(Sin  goeth  to  and  fro) 


Misshaped,  it  fluttered  down  the  lofty  hall, 
(Sin  walketh  up  and  down  in  the  world) 

Trailing  its  unclean  track  from  wall  to  wall. 
(Sin  goeth  to  and  fro) 

[35] 


In  wild  dismay  I  prayed  to  God ; 

(Sin  walketh  up  and  down  in  the  world) 
A  Voice  I,  trembling,  heard :  "Your  western  gate !" 

(Sin  goeth  to  and  fro) 

Full  wide  I  swept  the  wedded  doors  upon  the  west, 
(Sin  walketh  up  and  down  in  the  world) 

And  shouldered  by  the  gust  out  sprawled  the  pest. 
(Sin  goeth  to  and  fro) 


[36] 


WAR 

In  gusts  of  wrath  titanic, 
In  floods  of  fury  old, 
A  nation  rose  in  panic, 
And  armies  vast  unrolled. 


Low  on  the  tawny  prairie, 
So  neutral  and  so  stilled, 
The  lines  of  battle  wary 
Swept  like  a  flame  and  killed. 


Like  maddened  waves  wind-driven, 
The  marshalled  men  plunged  on, 
Till  by  their  anger  riven, 
The  live  as  dead  were  wan. 


Above  the  awful  medley 

The  War-Lords  wove  their  charm ; 

As  over  brewing  deadly 

The  witches  mutter  harm. 


Their  wills  like  winds  unpassioned 
Beat  in  the  battle's  jar, 
And  with  dread  purpose  fashioned 
The  blood-red  rose  of  war. 

[37] 


Nature  they  clove  asunder, 
The  brook  they  turned  to  wine ; 
Mid  furious  flash  and  thunder 
Oak  fought  her  neighbor  pine. 

Men  ran  from  men  affrighted, 
A  shattered  multitude ; 
And  left  the  world  benighted, 
And  hearts  in  solitude. 


[38] 


A  MEMORY 

In  some  young  life  of  long  ago 

I  held  you  dear; 
And  that  is  why  in  one  swift  glance 

We  grew  so  near. 

Sometime  (the  world  was  in  its  spring) 

'Mid  meadow-sweet, 
And  crowds  of  laughing  daffodils 

About  your  feet, 

That  spring  began,  the  summer  waned, 

And  you  were  all 
My  life,  until  the  autumn  hushed 

Our  festival. 

But  where  or  when  or  how  it  was, 

I  cannot  tell ; 
Only  a  silvery  voice  from  where 

All  memories  dwell, 

Breathes  faintly,  haunts  this  waking  dream, 

And  drifts  away ; 
I  can  but  guess  the  rest  to  be 

Some  old  sweet  play. 

You  are  a  child  and  more  shall  see 

In  Life's  dim  glass ; 
Yet  once  we  loved,  and  once  again 

Our  love  will  pass. 

[39] 


WHEN  WE  WERE  CHILDREN  TOGETHER 

When  you  were  a  child, 

And  I  was  a  child, 

And  we  were  children  together ; 

We'd  idle  and  play 

In  the  spacious  day, 

Adrift  on  the  summer  weather. 

And  we  tossed  our  world 

As  the  earth  is  whirled 

In  the  play  of  the  solar  power; 

And  time  was  the  toy 

Of  this  girl  and  this  boy, 

And  the  flight  of  the  years  was  an  hour. 

And  only  now 

Am  I  conscious  how 

We  have  gone  on  growing  older ; 

Were  we  growing  then 

In  that  golden  glen, 

Or  does  craven  Time  wax  bolder? 


We  will  hide  our  youth 

In  a  secret  booth 

Of  the  Palace  of  Loving  Laughter; 

For  there's  naught  to  fear 

From  the  robber,  Year, 

On  the  Isle  of  the  Ever-After. 

[40] 


TO  BETTY  IN  A  BLUE  FROCK 

If  I  were  a  chicory  flower — 

Sown  of  cerulean  fire 

Of  Vega,  to  sway  o'er  the  grass — 

And  were  mindful  of  meed  to  the  higher, 

I  would  bow  to  your  starry  power 

As  near  me  you  pass. 

But  I'm  only  a  poet  and  lover, 

With  words;  and  the  wings  of  light 

That  over  your  hair  waft  and  hover, 

Blue-bright, 

Shame  my  word-love, 

Poor  gift  to  so  gay 

A  sweet  little  spark  of  the  glancing 

Star-ray. 

So  if  of  my  song  you  are  chancing 

To  tire, 

Just  list  to  the  bird-love, 

A-lilting  from  grass  and  from  flower, 

From  cerulean  chicory  flower, 

With  star-light  afire, 

That  bends  to  your  astral  power 

From  Vega  astray. 


LENTO 
[To  Betty  and  Ellen] 

Two  children         walking. 

So  slow  their  walk, 

So  like  a  sleepy  wind  their  talk 

Arm  sagging  at  the  other's  waist, 
Close  as  leaves  fallen  on  wet  grass— 

Their  slippers  follow  oily  waves  of  heat, 

Lazy  as  gorged  fishes, 

Lazy  as  minutes 

Swimming  in  the  silence  of  an  empty  hous^ 

In  midsummer — 

The  drifting  yellow  ashes  of  the  sun 
cover  their  hair- 
So  slow  they  are 

The  drowy  seconds  settle  on  their  shoulders 
and  fold  wings — 

And  one  small  footstep        sings 
To  the  next  one 
A  lullaby— 

The  hours  wait  them        at  the  gate, 

Sighing 

As  the  little  feet         tick  by 

[42] 


THE  CHILD  SEEN  FROM  A  WINDOW 

Sweet  little  one, 

In  crystal  calm  withheld ; 

The  wind  fondles  so  tenderly  your  curls  of  mellow 

brown, 

And  kisses  your  olive  cheek, 
And  stirs  your  silken  frock. 
Oh,  little  one, 

From  the  eternal  spring  my  love  is  welling, 
And  winds  about  your  heart,  a  pleasant  river  ; 
Rest  upon  its  banks,  little  one, 
Beneath  the  leaning  coolness  of  the  tremulous  green 

trees. 

Do  you  feel  the  light  caressing  of  the  wind? 
It  is  my  love  reaching  out  to  you. 
Do  you  hear  the  mirthful  voices  of  the  waves  ? 
Then  you  hear  my  words  of  love. 
Do  you  see  ripe  tanned  cheeks  of  your  little  mates? 
Then  you  see  me,  your  lover. 
For  though  I  only  sit  and  look, 
It  is  with  their  silent  love,  I  love  you. 


[43] 


A  WINTER-WALK  WITH  BARBY 

There  among  the  withered  grasses, 
While  the  winter  daylight  passes, 

Barby  stood ; 

Blue  eyes  mild  with  wistful  pleading, 
On  my  open  heart  a-reading 

That  I  would 

Swing  her  in  my  arms  and  bear  her, 
On  my  breast  would  proudly  wear  her, 
As  a  priest  of  Childhood  should. 

Was  the  tangled  path  too  narrow, 
Did  the  stiffened  branches  harrow, 

Barby  dear? 

Standing  there  with  look  beseeching, 
Little  hands  to  mine  upreaching — 

What,  a  tear ! 

Come  aloft,  my  little  maiden, 
With  your  precious  beauty  laden, 
I  can  keep  away  the  fear. 

If  I  lift  you  out  of  places 
Low  and  toilsome,  till  our  faces 

Cheek  by  cheek, 

Both  look  down  upon  the  trouble, 
On  the  winter-weeds  and  stubble, 

And  the  reek 

Off  the  snow-wet  earth  a-rising, 
Is  it  past  all  shrewd  surmising 
Which  of  us  is  weak? 

[44] 


Barby,  it  is  I  who  need  you, 
Barby,  'tis  not  I  who  lead  you, 

You  lead  me ; 
I  am  toiling  in  the  lowly 
Tangled  pathways,  groping  slowly, 

Painfully ; 

I  am  weary  of  the  duty, 
Lift  me  to  your  height  of  Beauty, 
Where  the  wings  of  us  are  free ! 


[45] 


TO  BOBBY,  BEING  SEVEN 

Bobby  being  seven, 

At  dawn  I  raised  my  eyes, 

To  see  my  Father's  mansion, 

Bedecked  for  her  surprise. 

Never  was  airy  lawn  so  blue, 

By  sun  so  royal  spanned  ; 

Never  did  wind  so  gracious,  strew 

Cloud-shadows  on  the  land. 

The  earth  was  bright  with  morning, 

The  leaves,  in  spring-time  play, 

Despite  November's  warning, 

Skipped  to  the  flutes  of  day; 

And  out  of  many  a  moon-dim  place, 

Isled  in  the  inmost  Heaven, 

The  Night  had  plucked  some  shining  grace 

For  Bobby, — being  seven. 


[46] 


THE  WATER-FRONT 

On  the  checker-board 
Sky  squares  and  water  squares- 
Tipsy  tugs, 
pert  stacks, 
queening  at  the  dock . . . 

On  the  checker-board 
Black  sea, 
White  sky, 
kissing  corners .  . . 

Slow  steam  squirms, 
eludes  the  air. . . 

Oh        the  salty  little  clams. 
Sniffing ! 


[47] 


A  CHRISTMAS  TOAST 

(To  be  read  in  the  absence  of  the  poet,  by  any  poet's 
mother) 

Fill  up  your  glasses,  friends,  and  stand, 

And  when  you've  filled  them  all,  fill  yet  one  more 

Full  to  the  brim, 

As  he  would  like  to  be, 

Whose  hand 

Has  often  helped  you  spill  the  wine  before ; 

Whose  Christmas  spree, 

While  you  are  clashing  cup  and  tongue  with  Yule-tide 

vim, 

Is  one  of  lone  sobriety, 
Since  there's  no  fun 
In  getting  full  just  one  by  one. 
So  open  wide  the  door 
And  toast  the  vacancy. 

Fill  all  your  glasses,  for  the  grape  is  dead, 

The  purple-coated  grape,  who,  fat  and  sweet, 

Mid  air-swept  shadows  of  the  vine  did  hide ; 

The  prosperous  grape  is  dead. 

He  waxed  from  green  to  purple  splendor, 

Lavish  rain  and  sun  did  render 

Homage  to  his  viny  feet. 

And  then  he  died ; 

His  purple  paled  to  amber  yellow, 

His  sweetness  ran  more  rich  and  mellow, 

And  in  this  bottled  bliss  his  virtues  multiplied. 

[48] 


So  pass  from  one  to  all  the  brimming  bowl, 
And  drink  the  noble  grape, — his  very  soul. 

Fill  up  your  glasses,  friends,  and  drink 

To  him  who  on  a  distant  border  of  the  map 

Is  fast  impaled ; 

In  sundry  ways  he's  poor  but  rich  in  this, 

In  being  born  upon  the  Muse's  lap. 

(You  know  the  one,  she's  reading  now,  I  think) 

So  though  by  borrowed  blessings  of  the  day  regaled, 

He  yet  can  lend  to  you  his  all, 

Who  lives  in  rhyme  a  better  life 

Than  ever  he  can  live  in  deed  ; 

As  does  the  grape  that  hung  upon  the  wall, 

When  fully  freed, 

Its  soul  survives  in  glory  of  the  wine. 

So  with  these  words  of  mine. 

Then  fill  your  glasses,  friends,  and  drink  with  me ; 

In  wine  and  rhyme  the  grape  and  I  are  free ! 


[49] 


TO  ONE  IN  DEATH 

Before  the  spirit  fled  that  night, 
On  lifting  wings  of  fire, 
She  breathed  upon  her  fallen  mate 
One  last  warm  earth-desire ; 

Leaving  a  prayer  for  sweet  repose, 
And  lovely  dreams  awhile ; 
And  on  the  lips  of  ashen-rose 
The  flower  of  a  smile. 


[50] 


THE  SNAKE  PASSES 

Three  little  children  afoot  in  the  grass ; 

Getting  rich  in  daisies, 

Clutching  red  burdens  of  clover, 

Playing  at  rivalry 

With  skeltering  flocks  of  mad  blossoms, 

Mirth-shaken,  flung  by  the  whisk:  of  the  wings 

Of  the  tipseying  wind 

Into  the  hands  of  the  children. 

Three  pennies        falling, 
And  lost  in  the  grass. . . 
Three  flushed  children, 
Panting        covetous, 
Pulling  the  grass  apart; 

Withering  flowers  trampled  by  the  feet 
of  little  beasts. 

A  sullen  boy  with  two  pennies 

Clenched  in  his  grimy  fist; 

And  a  little  girl        crying f 

And  one  stunned  with  disappointment. 

So  I  did  not  throw  the  pennies, 

But  passed, 

And  after  me  fell  as  rain  ceasing, 

The  dropping  spray  of  cool  voices, 

And  silvery  flecks  of  tone 

Of  the  grass, 

Parted  by  children  in  play. 

[51] 


THE  MOON'S  SONG 

Sleep,  a  tiny  new-born  rose, 

Loves  the  South-wind  sprite ; 

All  its  folded  leaves  unclose 

When  I  climb  the  height 

Of  the  sloping  twilight  sky. 

Sleep  's  a  rose 

That  doth  unclose 

When  shadows  fly 

On  pale  blue  wing, 

And  passing,  sing 

The  love-spell  of  my  magic  gleam; 

All  its  rose-pink  leaves  unfold, 

So  reveal  the  heart  of  gold, 

Rose-heart  of  dream. 


[52] 


MY  SELF 

MY  SELF —  > 

And  swamp-lights  cooling  the  gloom  about  me, 

Leaping  lights  in  the  pools  of  shadow, 

Sweet  lights  of  stars  snapping  the  pods  of  darkness, 

Searing  flashes  of  pleasure  ridging  the  flesh  of  the 
night ; 

And  My  Self 

In  the  midst, 

Alone . . . 

Alone,  and  cold, 

When,  clucking  the  glory  of  God, 

Silently  steals  near  the  Mother 

And  crowds  the  cold  away  ; 

In  her  sensuous  warmth  I  smother, 

And  opens        the  Way ! 

The  Way  of  the  Word  to  be  born, 

Born  of  me, 

The  globular  whiteness. 

Soothingly  close  around  me        the  feathers  of  Life; 

Defying  the  freezing  assaults  of  Nothingness, 

Hiding  me  from  importunate  hands  that  would  break 
me. 

Oh,  prying  ones, 

Know  that  the  mystery  within  me  is  dead  to  you,  that 
the  seeking  hammers  of  conceit  kill  as  they  strike, 
and  that  my  mystery  will  never  be  born  but  to  die 
to  Eternity,  just  beyond  and  ever  beyond  your 
questioning  blind  eyes. 

[53] 


Into  your  shells,  you  seekers, 

And  wait         for  the  Secret, 

But  look  not  upon  It, 

For  I, 

My  Self, 

Am  the  ovum  of  God's  last  word, 

That  was  His  first, 

And  will  never  be  spoken. 

Listen ! 

MY  SELF 


154  I 


DUST     TO     DUST 

Earth  will  have  its  own, 

Yes,  for  Death  deals  the  law; 

Lay  me  in  waves  for  a  green  winding  sheet, 

Crown  me  with  stone  with  a  stone  at  my  feet, 

Yet  will  my  heavy  shroud  lower  me  down, 

Yet  will  earth  and  my  body  meet. 

Earth  will  have  its  own. 

Earth  will  have  its  own. 

What  will  bear  me  so  high  ; 

Though  stars  stare  around  me  out  of  the  dark, 

And  the  Earth  is  a  dull  coal  below  in  the  dark  ? 

Yet  through  dark  will  the  dust  of  my  body  fall, 

Yet  will  earth  and  my  body  meet. 

Earth  will  have  its  own. 


[ss] 


TO  A  MASTER-MARINER 

Time's  waves  toss  high,  and  winds  eternal  blow 
Upon  our  sails  set  to  our  will's  intent ; 
From  ports  of  home  diurnally  we  go, 
And  to  our  hearths  at  even-tide  our  prows  are  bent. 
So  every  day  we  fare  to  unknown  isles, 
Mid  tides  that  cross  and  twist  our  clear-thought  plan; 
And  some  on  dread  sea-changes  drift,  and  whiles 
Odysseus  ploughs  the  churning  hours, — a  Man ! 
Such  a  stout  sailor  of  the  days  art  thou. 
'Tis  eighty  years  since  to  the  bubbled  edge 
The  Mother- Love  your  tiny  shell  did  vow, 
And  broke  upon  your  launching  life  her  pledge. 
Eighty  tall  ships  ride  homeward  to  her  soul, 
Weighed  with  the  love  you've  spent  to  make  men 
whole. 


[56] 


A  WARNING  FROM  THE  HEART 

Do  you  love  me  for  what  I  wish  to  be 
More  than  for  what  I  am?    If  that  is  so 
Stay  in  my  life,  I  would  not  have  you  go ; 
We  shall  be  sail-mates  on  the  unknown  sea. 
But  if,  used  to  this  sultry  bay,  unfree 
To  ride  the  wind,  to  fly  with  winged  snow, 
You  in  your  passion's  pocket  hide  our  vow, 
My  shell  is  yours  but  not  the  meat  of  me. 

I  cannot  stay  and  live,  I  cannot  die  in  flight ; 
If  I  must  live  alone  then  I  must  choose 
Which  of  two  precious  things  I  am  to  lose, 
To  stifle  in  your  heart,  or  wing  my  way  to  light. 
Now  I  have  said  and  will  be  ever  yours ; 
Bar  all  your  shutters,  bolt  your  iron  doors. 


[57] 


THE  VISION  OF  ONE  WHO  DOUBTED 

They  came  and  told  me  she  was  ill, 

But  I  did  not  listen  for  I  doubted 

That  Beauty  like  to  hers  could  be  so  mortal. 

I  sat  in  silence  of  the  flowers  till  the  evening 

Shook  over  me  an  azure  shroud, 

And  then  a  voice : 

Come,  said  my  love  to  me,  Come, 

And  I  will  give  you  my  beauty, 

My  secret  in  tenderness  closed 

From  the  wistful  wish  in  your  eyes. 

I  followed  in  trembling  haste 

After  the  whispering  fret 

Of  her  feet  in  the  grass, 

Out  into  loneliness, 

Companioned  alone  by  the  manifold  loveliness 

Of  her  whom  I  loved. 

The  world  dropped  from  us  into  its  murmuring  pit, 

And  the  stars  streaked  the  night 

With  swift  falling  threads  of  bright  pain, 

As  she  led  me ; 

While  the  air  blew  thin  on  my  heart, 

And  my  heart  was  still  as  a  pool  that  hears 

Only  the  beating  of  song 

In  the  throat  of  one  small  bird 

That  spills  the  laughter  of  Death, 

And  quenches  the  thirst  of  the  living. 

[58] 


I  listened 

To  her  feet  cleaving  a  path  through  the  night  ; 

And  as  we  went  higher  into  the  wood, 

The  shadows  of  leaves 

Stole  crumb  by  crumb  the  brightness 

That  pebbled  her  hair, 

Like  grains  of  soft  gold  in  the  bed  of  a  brook. 

More  fast  than  her  feet, 

The  pursuing  feet  of  the  Night 

Shod  in  sandals  of  starlight, — 

The  Night,  made  immortally  young  after  throes 

With  the  Angel  of  day 

Joined  us,  silently  striding, 

Crowded  close  to  the  swaying  fragrance 

Of  her, 

So  that  I  hurried,  but  vainly,  to  reach  her. 

This  is  the  place,  I  think. 

She  was  stayed  in  the  clasp  of  the  Night, 

And  only  her  voice 

Was  with  me  there  in  the  house  of  the  shadow. 

This  is  the  place  I  have  seen 
Only  in  dream;  do  not  speak, 
Or  I  cannot  remember. 

I  spoke  not,  but  my  heart 
Strove  wildly  as  ever  a  rabbit 

[59] 


Thrashed  in  the  claws  of  a  trap; 
For  there,  under  the  surface  of  darkness 
She  lay  as  still  as  one  drowning, 
Warning  me  not  to  save  her. 

I  could  not  see  what  she  did, 

But  as  if  by  a  gesture  of  one  pale  hand  or  the  other, 

A  gray  ghost  of  light 

Lifted  the  smothering  shadow, 

And  revealed  a  wan  face, 

And  made  plain  but  amazing  the  shut  eyes  of  the  wood. 

It  was  enough  that  once  I  could  see  her, 

Though  but  for  a  moment, 

In  the  gaping  black  jaws  of  a  cavern ; 

That  once  her  frail  hands 

Fluttered  as  flowers  tossed 

On  the  low  singing  breath  of  the  south, 

And  scattered  drops  of  their  fragrance; 

It  was  enough  that  her  closing  eyes  saw  me, 

Then  were  blinded  by  sleep, 

And  she  was  gone  in  a  dream. 

But  I  stayed  alone  with  the  moon, 

Who  watched  me. 


After  immeasurable  pauses 

In  the  slow  flight  of  the  moon, 

From  afar  came  a  vision 

Of  One  who  ran  swiftly  beyond  the  horizon, 

Over  the  frontier  of  death, 

[60] 


To  the  fields  where  the  stars  slip  their  tether  and  live 

in  glad  races, 
And  I  heard  a  voice  calling : 

This  way  I  am  dreaming, 
Follow,  follow,  follow! 

I  hastened  to  dream,  and  long  and  long  I  went  dream 
ing, 

Till  before  me, 

Familiar  as  pitch  of  the  roof  on  the  sky 

Bent  over  the  home  that  one  seeks 

In  the  maze  of  the  night, 

Yawned  the  silent  stiff  lips  of  a  cavern. 

Loud  as  the  horn  that  hangs  at  the  hips  of  a  hunter 

I  uttered  her  name,  once  and  twice, 

Again  I  gave  voice  to  the  magic, 

Then  the  secret  veil  beyond  vision  was  caught  by  a 
wind  and  lifted, 

By  a  wind  that  dashed  out  of  its  lair  in  the  rock  ; 

And  I  saw  her  waiting  in  smiles 

For  my  blindness  to  end. 

And  as  tiring  maid  to  her  glory 

A  Star  came  out  of  the  cavern, 

And  folded  nine  mantles  of  silver  about  her, 

Falling  in  dazzling  plumage  of  blue  to  her  feet; 

Darted  from  her  hair  and  her  face  in  luminous 
splinters ; 

Broke  in  spangles  of  star-dust  over  the  mould  of  her 
beauty ; 

[61] 


Leaped  from  the  rosy  tips  of  her  fingers ; 
And  lay  in  unfathomable  brightness, 
An  astral  pool  on  her  forehead, 
Between,  but  more  dim  than,  her  eyes. 

That  night  she  died,  they  said. 
But  I  did  not  hear. 
The  path  was  plain, 
The  path  I  had  suffered. 


MAUVE 

The  rhythm  of  the  sea 

Is  blent        in  undulations  of  gray  satin  ; 

The  ashes  of  burned  violets        drift 

over  a  sky  ; 
And  blurred, 

a  magical  seed  of  light 

Breaks        in  the  whorls  of  a  strange  flower. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  flower 
With  core  of  tarnished  silver 

and  five  black  petals  ? 


[63] 


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AN  INITIAL  FINlToF  25  CENTS 


FEB  1 3  1834 


LD  21-lOOm-7,'; 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


